Of all things
by Ryuiki Kitana
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been missing for about 2 weeks, He's finally found. The first chapter is Watson Centric, the second Lestrade, the third will be Clarky, and the fourth Holmes. The fifth will be the villian's view.
1. Watson had herd it all

There was one thing that Watson could never get used to, one thing that Holmes did that always slowly drove him insane, with worry and even guilt sometimes for not being there…It was when he would disappear for weeks on end. He would say he would be back soon, that it was a simple case, But he wouldn't return.

There was never contact either in these, just a disoriented Holmes wandering home at an ungodly hour, hurt beyond what any normal Human would have given up at. But he always found his way home, to his doctor, to safety.

He prayed that would be today that the next time the door opened that he would slam down his journal and bolt out to the staircase to find Holmes in a heap on the floor, hurt, but alive.

But now, the door opened quietly, never a good sign, was it Mrs. Hudson? He set down his journal and stood, walking from his office and placing his hand on the door to Holmes' study. It was officer Clark, why would he be here…?"No…" Was all Watson could say, letting his hand drop from the door that seemed to almost burn him now. "H-Have you arrested him? What has the fool done now?"Please don't let it be true.

"I'm sorry sir…But there is something you need to know. We have found Sherlock Holmes." Even as he said this, Watson could see the color drain on Clarks face…Clarky as Holmes would call him. Had called him.

The thought itself made his legs go weak, the grip on his walking cane tightening to the point that his hand was almost purely white. Sherlock was too smart to get himself killed, right? "…What has he gotten himself into now…?" As he spoke that firm tone he always had faded, The military man almost sounded meek, forcing himself to think that his friend had merely done something slightly stupid.

Clark lead him out of the house, carefully, slowly to the grave yard. The sight in front of him was enough to break the doctors heart. A fresh grave was dug, and a marble headstone with the name 'Sherlock Holmes' decorating it. Truly, it was beautiful had it not carried his companions name. He noted then, as Sherlock would have liked him to, every officer there had their head bowed, and the grave itself was rather shallow. "Do not t-tease me about this, Clarky, where is Holmes?" A rather extravagant coffin was opened, revealing the pale, prone form to his eyes, dressed loosely in a suit that seemed just a bit too big, courtesy of the Yard, as well as the coffin…His hair was brushed back, tamed, and his arms crossed across his he didn't know that this meant this counterpart was dead, he would say he almost looked peaceful, more composed then he ever had before.

Watson turned on his heel immediately and the coffin was closed once again, he could hear them moving it, their footsteps, the sounds of exertion as they carefully lowered his friend into the ground. Why was Mycroft not here to see his little brother off? Where was Irene to be peaking in from the shadows? Wide blue eyes looked to Lestrade first, then to Mrs. Hudson.

This simply had to be a dream, fabricated by his lonely and worried mind, something that he would wake up from when the door slammed and Sherlock came bounding in with a smile that seemed to almost cover his face. He would be waiting for praise of course, waiting to tell Watson of everything he had done, of how he had caught the villain, of how he had escaped the perils only to be caught by…Something as outlandish as pirates! He would tell him of his adventure back home, of the people he met, of the shoes they wore, the perfume that decorated the women's bodies…

Holmes would…

Never walk through that door again.

That single thought seemed to break him, he looked up to the darkening sky and left without a word, staggering nearly the entire way home, not stopping until Lestrade picked him up in a cab. He had nothing to say, nothing at all, men did not cry, not military men. Swiftly he got out of the cab, raising a hand in goodbye before he opened the door to their…his home, He walked up the stairs and immediately went to the other males study, collaped onto the carpet where he often found Sherlock asleep.

And he cried, he sobbed so hard he felt almost as though he would die himself, like he was without oxygen, without true reason to live. He had lost the ecentric man that his life was almost based around, This room was useless now. That Violin he would curse at three in the morning was now more then welcome, if only he could hear Holmes plucking tiredly at the strings once more.

The little leather case that seemed to be the bane of his existence…He would give anything to see the other male sitting and making use of that Seven Per Cent solution.

The fake nose on his table, the half empty glass of wine, the pot of water sitting over a long dead fire.

All things that were useless without Holmes.

Without Sherlock.

John screamed, tossing the book that he had seen Sherlock flipping through about two weeks ago, he threw it at the wall, where Sherlock had shot a design into.

He tossed the desk, dug through the papers to see who exactly it was that had killed his dear Holmes, His Sherlock. To see who had killed the man he loved, even if his feelings were not returned.

One glimmer seemed to poke into his mind then. He hadn't pronounced him dead himself, maybe someone was a fool? Maybe they did not feel his heartbeat, maybe they could not hear his breath. Perhaps they were all wrong, what if he was alive? What if he wasn't?

He could not just rob a grave, let alone one so treasured.

But he could not let it go, he could not release that glimmer of hope. He simply couldn't, His logical mind was turning upside down.

He would find him, he would be alive, he had to be. How long had it been since they sealed him in the coffin? How much air would he have?

Spite his legs protest he bolted out of the room, that darling pipe cradled to his chest. A cab wouldn't do, he had to find his way there on his own. He had to find his way into the grave yard, to incapacitate the grounds keeper, he had to find a shovel.

His mind was in shambles, he came up behind the old man and very carefully put him into a hold and to deny his mind the oxygen it needed. No, no. John. Not enough to kill him. Let go. Let Go, Let Go, LET GO.

His hands dropped, and he knelt down, pressing his fingers to the elder mans neck and feeling for a pulse. Thankfully, he had stopped in time. He was alive. With a small sound he ran over to the grave, digging first with his hands and nearly yelling at the ground."Holmes!"

He won't answer.

"Holmes! Sherlock!" He growled the last bit, tossing aside the freshly turned dirt. A shovel would be easier, but he couldn't spend the time trying to get one, and the dirt was loose enough that he could get enough out at a deep was he? Six? No, It was far too shallow for six… Four? Perhaps with the coffin in there, it would be around two or three feet of dirt?

How far in was he…one? One and a half? With a pained sound his fingers met with wood. Great, there it was. Now he just had to get the rest off. It took him a little while, and he could hear nothing from inside of the coffin but he had to try.

After about twenty or thirty minutes, he had no track of time, he stared at the wooden barrier between Sherlock and himself.

Tossing open the coffin he stared at what was inside with wide eyes, his heart leaping into his throat.

Sherlock's hands were up by his face, fingers bloody, nails worn down and all of his knuckles cracked. He had been alive, not long ago his love had been scratching to get out, panicking, screaming undoubtedly.

"Holmes!" John lurched forward, fingers pressing almost roughly to the carotid artery and waiting for his heart, waiting a painful second to feel that weak throb.

Please. God, Please.

His eyes began to water, he had felt it, a pulse, Sherlock had a pulse.

He was alive.

Oh god, He was alive…

Johns arms wrapped about the smaller frame, pulling him out carefully spite both his knee and shoulder refusing to work. Very gently he laid out the detective on the ground, pressing his ear to his chest and a hand on his face to simply listen, listen to the heartbeat grow stronger with the addition of real air, listen to Sherlock breathing. Listen to the sounds of life from the man that people had almost left for dead."Sherlock…Holmes, Can you hear me? Please…Please still be there." His voice quivered obviously then, his own frame starting to shake.

But then those arms moved, weak, fragile, they moved and found their way around his back, holding him close. "My Boswell…I did not…think you would come…"

Again he broke down, but for a different reason, the tears were of happiness, burying his face into the mans fresh clothes and sobbing.

"I-I will always find you. Don't you leave me again.."


	2. Lestrade had seen it all

They can never know, they never will.

No one could know that whenever Holmes would correct him a thrill would dance up the inspectors spine, making him straighten out more. They could never know that the other males blatant ignorance regarding politics was endearing to him. They could never know that when he would find Holmes in a sticky situation that he wanted nothing more to rush in and save him, even if he didn't fully understand what was going on anyway.

No one could ever know that the detective had charmed Inspector Lestrade over the many years.

----

"Quite a boring night isn't it, Clark?" He mutters, looking to the slightly panicky officer as he seemed to wring his hat. "Was' up now, did you get a call?""It's Sherlock Holmes sir, we believe we may have found where he's been held." In those eyes there was hope, the chance that they could actually save the other male for once seeming to thrill them both.

"I told you giving in to their demands would do nothing good for us, Clark! Now, line up the troops we have to be prepared for a firefight!" As Lestrade said this he stood, sure to keep his finger from the trigger as his hands began to shake with the tightness of his grip.

A good majority of his mind wanted to contact the good Doctor, to tell him they may have found where Holmes had been hiding, after all they had yet to tell him he was a hostage even… But he stopped himself… If Watson got there first, then he would rescue Holmes, and their effort will have been for naught, he would not receive the thanks he so wanted.

After around thirty minute he felt he had enough officers to follow, Gregson at his side even if he wanted the other male as far away as he could be. If there was one thing Lestrade knew now, it was that Holmes was magnetic, even as straight as they were, they wanted him. No, not just wanted... he wanted to dominate him. And he wasn't going to give Gregson the chance.

They moved carefully, yet quickly, traveling down to nine alms and looking to the abandoned warehouse. Truly, they had looked there before, but nothing had shown up. What a fool he felt like, to have Holmes be so close yet not find him.

But surly enough, in the midst of the huge room there was one thing standing out, the crumpled body on the floor, light occasionally flickering over him.

"He's dead, you know, or he will be soon enough…"Lestrade was the first to spin, looking to the corner and the man so perfectly standing there. He had a smile on his face and his hat was tipped. This all seemed rather ominous to him. "…What's your name, boyo?" This was a rather low drawl and with a snap of his fingers he sent Clark and a few other officers over to the body in the middle of the room.

"Damon." With an accent like that it was clear the man was not British, if only Holmes would get up and tell them exactly what it was! Lestrade frowned slightly then, waving a couple more officers forward. "Cuff him! Don't just stand there quivering!" He was growing irritated now, Clark was rather turned his back on the man then, slowly moving over to where the officers had fallen to their knees. There was to talking, no discussion. There's no way that Damon could be correct, Holmes would never get himself killed. Standing there by the still frame and cocking his head gently, Lestrade looked over the other man. His breathing was slowing down, the color fading from his face.

He could feel his heart leaping into his throat, trying to choke him as it would seem. Kneeling carefully he just lifted the detective, one hand pressed to his neck and the other slowly pulling him closer. "The one time I find you…" He murmured, shaking his head and fitting into his lip. Of course. The only time he would be able to hold this man was while he died.

Languidly chocolate hues opened, perhaps unnoticed by anyone but Clark and Lestrade, for they went entirely silent and still. There was no voice attached, but the detective's lips were moving, mouthing a few words. Lestrade missed most of them. "Was that?" Holmes looked faintly irritated, forcing his muscles to work so he could overly mouth two words.

'Don't Cry'.

Lestrade took his turn to look irritated, straightening a little and swallowing the lump in his throat. "Now, now, old boy, don't act like it's the end. Common, sit up." He says this insistently, carefully moving the genius into a sitting position. "Tell me wha's happened." But seconds after he shifted the other male closer as well as up, he felt that pulse flutter meekly then disappear. The inspectors first reaction was to press a little harder, and when he could still feel nothing he pressed his ear to the thin mans chest.

Nothing.

Damn it all.

Forcing himself to stand with the man still gathered into his arms he fought against his own mind, carefully handing Holmes over to Clark before he wheeled upon his heel and stormed up to 'Damon'. That bastard was smiling, he was…what was that? Happy? Proud? Prolly both.

Without quite thinking it through, he brought up his club and brought the wood across the mans face with a satisfying sort of crack…Had he broken his nose? Maybe a tooth? The sound that came next was just as satisfying as the officers that had been holding him let him hit the floor… Ah, He'd definitely done some damage, there was blood on the murderer's lips after all.

"Put him in the hansom." There was no hesitation here, the officers lifted the man who had let himself so easily get caught and dragged him out of the room. There would be no arguing against Lestrade in this mood.

The lean, almost ferret like man shifted a bit then, enough to catch officer Clark from the corner of his eyes, still holding the far too still frame close. He couldn't look away, and he knew it was obvious he was staring as his head moved in the same path as the other male, watching him all of the way to the door. He stared even for a moment longer, waving the other officer's out with soft words of calling himself a cab and looking over the scene a few more times.

Once he herd the hansom pull away he slid the door to a close, turned on his heels and moved to the middle of the room.

Lestrade. Inspector of the Scotland Yard. Proud British gentleman.

Broke down and cried.

---

It would take him a little while to leave the mostly empty warehouse, looking everything over, replaying the little words of guidance Holmes had taught him on some of their mutual cases.

Everything was important.

He needed to know what Holmes went through. He let his fingers grace the wall, running over what seemed to be dried blood.

He looked to a small crate in the corner which also seemed to reek of blood. He could imagine his detective being tossed in there after a good beating. There had to be more people involved then just Damon… Perhaps he would find them before the rest of the yard, and make then hurt for it all.

But he was far too loyal for that. He left the solemn place behind and carefully returned to the Yard, moving silently past everyone… It was so quiet here, no jokes, no conversations… Everyone must know by now that Sherlock Holmes had died.

The next few hours truly were a blur to him, he'd purchased a good suit for Holmes, and he took his time to carefully change him into it. Clarky found the coffin and directed people on the grave… He had had Gregson get the headstone…

Before he could even realize it he had placed the eccentric males body into the coffin and watched Watson approach.

He could see it in the mans eyes that his mind was breaking, falling apart. And the moment their gaze met he had to look away.

John H. Watson must have been in love, as well.

With a few careful movements he closed the coffin and then let the others finish the job, let them burry him and efficiently end the mans life all together… But never his legacy.

It was all done now, they were all leaving, carefully, as the clouds shrouded the sunlight, he pressed his lips to the cool stone. "Forgive me, Holmes."


End file.
